


Possibilities

by Jaybeefoxy



Series: Flufftober Prompts 2020 [14]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Beginnings, Do Not Translate, Fluff, Flufftober, Flufftober prompts 2020, Greg Lestrade being honest, M/M, Mystrade fluff, Pre-Relationship, You do not have permission to post to another site, friends to lovers if you squint, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-20
Updated: 2020-10-20
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:47:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27119089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaybeefoxy/pseuds/Jaybeefoxy
Summary: This is a rather longer one. It ran away with me as these things do, and turned into an examination of how the first date might have been initiated. Mycroft is an assessor of risk, after all.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Series: Flufftober Prompts 2020 [14]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1950532
Comments: 7
Kudos: 68





	Possibilities

**Author's Note:**

> Part 14 of flufftober. I am massively behind but catching up.

Mycroft Holmes dealt in **possibilities** every damned day. He was an assessor, an underwriter of risk, a clearing house of information, and as such, he was rarely surprised, and yet…one person seemed capable of surprising him in ways he had not foreseen. One particular possibility had completely eluded him; the possibility that Gregory Lestrade, Detective Inspector in Her Majesty's Constabulary, was actually interested in him, physically, emotionally, and intellectually. 

Despite the fact that he knew Gregory Lestrade wasn’t as stupid as Sherlock made him out to be, for Mycroft it felt as though almost everybody had the minimal mental processes of a goldfish and the attention span of a butterfly. Dealing with ordinary _people_ felt like wading through treacle. His mind flew on so quickly, he made mental connections and came to conclusions much faster than the rest of the human race. It was simply how his brain worked. If he was not careful, he left folk breathless with his speed or found them thinking it was some kind of trick. Had he been born in a different century, Mycroft felt sure he would have been burned at the stake or hanged for witchcraft. So it was with some interest that he realised that intellectually Gregory Lestrade was able to hold his own against him. Yes, he was slower. Yes, he was not as well educated. Yes, he often looked like he was swimming upstream and fighting the current all the way, but… Gregory Lestrade was tenacious. He kept going. He educated himself. He learned. His general knowledge was therefore quite wide, and Mycroft was pleasantly surprised to find a conversation with him wasn’t as tedious as he expected. 

Emotionally, Mycroft knew he and his brother were not the most erudite of men. He often wondered if something was wrong with the pair of them when he observed the majority of common human emotional practices. Love, grief, _caring…_ they all seemed beyond his scope. Uncle Rudy had taught him to rise above such failings. They only impeded the Work. They got in the way, made everything _messy. Caring is not an advantage_ was a particular mantra of his. However, Mycroft could never quite shed the need to care. He cared about his baby brother, almost too much. That particular bond had been made early though. It predated Rudy’s training, and was therefore too deeply embedded for Mycroft to remove it completely. Not that he had ever wanted to. Sherlock’s death would quite simply rip him apart. He had held onto that like a life preserver. Sometimes he felt it was the only thing that anchored him to his humanity. 

Watching Greg Lestrade deal with people was almost a joy. He was an emotionally capable human being and everything Mycroft was not; approachable, friendly, protective, compassionate. He was attractive and charismatic, a leader, despite displaying a woeful lack of confidence in his own abilities at times. Folk willingly followed his orders and allowed themselves to be guided by him. Mycroft allowed himself the whimsy that if Gregory Lestrade had ever entered politics he would have reached Number 10 in record time. He was an attractive proposition, everybody’s _mate,_ someone who inspired confidence and integrity. Mycroft wondered vaguely what life would have been like with Gregory Lestrade as PM. He knew it was a pointless exercise; politics would have changed the man beyond recognition, made him into something harder, something perhaps more aggressive. He would have represented the Labour Party, Mycroft knew. A man of the People. When such fanciful notions struck, Mycroft would shake himself, and wonder. Gregory Lestrade was the only man he had ever met who could inspire him to such eccentric creativity. 

It was the physical attraction that puzzled Mycroft the most. He knew Gregory was attracted to him; looks cast his way, eyes openly admiring, and the way Gregory stood close to him if opportunity allowed. He had seen the involuntary dilation of the man’s pupils during those occasions, seen the dark eyes go even darker, and seen his nostrils flare, taking in Mycroft’s scent. There was a primal undercurrent during those moments, raw and reflexive, instinctual. It was disconcerting, 

Mycroft knew he wasn't classically handsome; his hair tended toward red, his nose was too long, and he was too pale. There were busts of Roman Emperors in the British Museum who were more handsome than he. Freckles and fair skin left him vulnerable to burning in the summer sun, so he shunned it as much as possible. He hid the majority of his skin under the best UV protection Saville Row could provide, donning his fabric armour to combat the dragons of Whitehall and Westminster. He was constantly at war with his weight. Unlike his brother, whose metabolism ran rampant and left him skinny no matter how much he ate, Mycroft’s ran slow, leading to an almost constant battle to remove any excess fat. Diagnosed with an underactive thyroid in his early thirties had given him a reason but not a cure. Battling not only extra weight but a crippling lack of energy, Mycroft had been required to discipline his racing brain ruthlessly. To most he seemed reluctant to expend any energy whatsoever, cultivating a reputation for despising leg work, treating it, and other people, with disdain. Rising to the level required in order to be able to send others to do the work for him was the only option, and rise he had. It also helped that he also cultivated an unapproachable air so folk did not question his actions. At best he projected a chilly demeanor, at worst his code name Antarctica had been correctly bestowed. 

Mycroft knew he could attract a mate if he tried hard enough. As long as he wasn't worried about motivation. He _was_ independently wealthy. He moved with ease within the highest circles of power. He knew there were enough men who appreciated both. However, those men would be incapable of love, of devotion, and perhaps even affection. Oh, they would court him, even perhaps sweep him off his feet and give him a fairytale wedding. Underneath, however, Mycroft would always doubt that they were in it for the money, for his connections, and definitely not for him. 

Gregory Lestrade was a horse of a different colour. He neither wanted to court Mycroft nor to impress him. He consulted Sherlock on a regular basis, had single-handedly forced the man to get himself clear of drugs and given him an outlet for his own racing intellect. He consulted Mycroft about Sherlock, keeping big brother updated, making sure that Mycroft was aware of what his brother was up to without breaking the younger man’s trust in him as a confidant and friend. They both knew Sherlock had an aversion to Mycroft knowing the intimate details of his business. Greg did not divulge everything and Mycroft did not ask more than he knew Gregory was comfortable imparting to him. It was enough to be kept in the loop so he knew Sherlock wasn’t in danger.

Mycroft saw someone who was the epitome of masculine beauty; silvering hair, a rugged jawline, dark peat-brown eyes, a smile to die for, and a body that was still hard in all the right places despite advancing age. He was fit, broadly built, strong. In short, Greg Lestrade ticked all Mycroft’s boxes when it came to the opposite sex. He just couldn’t understand the man’s motivation. Everybody else had wanted something from him. Gregory Lestrade seemed not to want anything. That made him potentially dangerous. An ambitious man Mycroft could deal with. Ambitious men could be bought. Lestrade was not particularly ambitious, beyond the usual steady progression up the promotion ladder, and therefore potentially had no price. He was also steadfastly against any form of nepotism, preferring to progress under his own auspices, the knowledge that he had climbed the ladder on his own merits more valuable to him than the quicker rise of the sycophantic yes-man. 

As far as Greg Lestrade was concerned, Sherlock’s brother was very easy on the eyes, but the notion of Mycroft Holmes, tight-laced Civil Servant and master of the withering gaze, ever being interested in him was laughable. The man was elegance personified; tall, with a haughty demeanor, and a lithe physique clad in jaw-droppingly expensive cashmere-blend pinstripe, and boy, if Greg didn’t find those qualities a massive turn-on. Moreover, he enjoyed talking to him. Mycroft was intelligent and quick witted, with a dry sense of humour and a love of irony. Talking to him was a breath of fresh air on a foggy day, it cleared out the senses and made him feel alive. He loved dealing with people who were quick on the uptake, and Mycroft was lancet-sharp. 

However, Greg found that he did not want anything from the man in his sights. Sure, Mycroft Holmes was wealthy, comfortable in higher social circles and apparently walked the corridors of power with ease, but Greg did not want any of that. He had managed to get where he was by his own blood, sweat, and tears, and that sat well with him. He was proud of his own achievements. He didn’t need connections or money or extravagant gestures to impress him. In fact that usually had the opposite effect. So, there was nothing that he wanted from Mycroft Holmes. Well, nothing apart from the opportunity to take him apart piece by glorious piece, and reduce him to a sweaty mess between the sheets of what was no doubt a rather posh bed in a rather luxurious flat. Greg was a simple uncomplicated man, pragmatic and practical, and somewhat unromantic (a trait his wife had complained about on more than one occasion). However, Mycroft seemed not to be complicated with anything so base as a desire for romance. He was busy, not overly sentimental, and posh. He didn’t invite a romantic approach, just an honest one. 

“Dinner?” Mycroft questioned, floored by the invitation.

“Yeah. My place, Friday, bring a bottle of something red. I’ll cook something Italian. What do you say?”

“Why?”

Greg paused for a moment. “Why?”

“Yes. Why?” Mycroft looked genuinely puzzled.

“Because I...um…” Greg took a breath, grabbed the proverbial bull by the horns and said, “because I fancy you, you daft berk. That’s why.” He decided not to dwell on the fact that he had just called the British Government a “daft berk”. Somehow, that bothered him more than the fact that he had also just told the man he fancied him. So he awaited the response in silence, anxiety ramping up with every passing second. When it came, it was a bit of a surprise. 

“No, you don’t.” 

Greg blinked and his thoughts stalled a little. “Er...pardon? Are you telling me who I do and don’t fancy now?”

“You can’t _fancy_ me, Lestrade. I am simply _not_ fanciable.”

“Bollocks!” Greg retorted, kicked out of his slight glitch in communication by the declaration. “You are _very_ fanciable. I mean…” he paused again. This was getting into dangerous confessions territory and he wasn’t sure he had the time for the fallout it would inevitably cause. He had taken the opportunity to ask Mycroft to dinner as they stood waiting for Sherlock to finish his shenanigans around yet another body. It was a familiar dance, but this time, Greg had made his mind up once and for all to put himself out of his misery and accept whatever blunt rejection Mycroft gave him so he could actually stop pining for the elder Holmes and move on with life. An invitation to dinner would be easy, and Mycroft would say no, and Greg could stop fantasizing that he might have a chance with the man. This… This was… a tad unexpected. 

“Yes? Do go on, Inspector. I am sure you have a list of my desirable qualities in there somewhere.”

“Well...yes, I do. I mean…you look…” Greg’s mouth went dry. _Am I actually about to tell him why I think he’s attractive?_ Greg rolled his eyes in a gesture reminiscent of Sherlock and sighed gustily. _I just managed to tell him I fancied him and then called him a berk. I somehow don’t think I can do any more damage. Oh well, in for a penny…._

“Do take your time,” Mycroft said testily. “I’ll wait. Although I am not anticipating a very long list...”

Greg actually blushed. He hated himself for it, but he blushed. “I...um...you…”

“I thought so. Utterly without foundation. Stop wasting my time, Lestrade. You do _not_ fancy me. It is quite impossible.”

“Actually, if you would just button it for a moment, I’ll tell you. Honestly, Mycroft,” Greg rubbed a hand over his mouth and frowned, “I...I just… Look, this is embarrassing. I’m not...eloquent like you. I don’t have the words… Look, Mycroft...you _are_ gorgeous. _Seriously_. With those suits and your elegance and your intelligence and your wit. You are bloody charming when you want to be, you know, and you care about Sherlock, so you’re not as cold as you like to claim. You always put everybody to shame, how you look in those suits. I always feel underdressed.” He attempted a laugh but it sounded lame. 

“So I intimidate you and make you feel inferior? That is hardly _desirable_ …”

“Mycroft, shut up and listen before I lose my nerve. I find you... _very_ attractive, okay, not perhaps in a conventional way but we always get on well, and I love talking with you, you know? When we actually _discuss_ something, that is. When we talk, you’re charming and funny and intelligent, and I am massively turned on by intelligence. But you look good, always. I like your hair, and your eyes are... _beautiful_ , honestly. I find myself _wanting_ you...physically. Mentally. Everything about you…” Greg finally ran out of words and stood there helplessly.

“Gregory...nobody _wants_ me…” Mycroft sounded defeated, weary. “Nobody even wishes to get close to me. I do not invite _closeness…”_

“What? What do you mean, they don’t want you?”

“I am not wanted for myself. I am wanted for what I can do for people, for who I know, how much money I have…”

“Alright, stop right there. First off, I am _not_ after your money. Got enough of my own, thanks. I live comfortably, which is no small achievement in the middle of London, but I manage it. I live within my means. It helps that I ditched my cheating wife, and I don’t have kids, so I have no alimony, no debts and I can afford decent food. I’m not a pauper. So…”

“Money like mine buys anything, Gregory. _Anything_. Even you would succumb to that.”

“Probably, a little bit. I’m under no illusions there. I can’t say being wined and dined in a posh restaurant without worrying about the price wouldn’t be nice once in a while, but I don’t need it all the damn time. Nobody can live that way…”

“You would be surprised…”

Greg shrugged. “Maybe, but I don’t expect any partner of mine to make extravagant gestures. I pride myself in being able to provide as well. I’m afraid I am the traditional male in that regard. Besides, it’s pretty insulting if you think I can be bought so easily.”

“I...I have no wish to insult you, Gregory.”

“Good. Look, Mycroft, I understand if you don’t believe me. You have your own opinion on how you look, and I do know about your brother’s insults, you know. I have heard him. I’ve also kicked him for it too. It’s undeserved. You are not fat, nor are you the monster he makes you out to be. I know we hardly know each other even after so many years, and you probably can deduce a lot more about me than I can about you, but I do know some things, and I do know I would like to call you a friend, and I would like to get to know the real you under the Saville Row. Mycroft, trust is hard won, and much more easily lost, but I won’t willingly break your trust if I get it. I am _not_ that kind of person. Moreover, you’ve known me long enough now to surely know that about me.” Greg stopped speaking and waited, watching Mycroft. The man’s grey eyes fixed on him, but his face gave no indication of his thoughts. 

Mycroft regarded Gregory, trying to maintain his mask. He wanted to believe the man, so badly, but he was wary. He inhaled through his nose and exhaled slowly, giving himself time to respond. When he did it was studied and sincere. “You already have my trust, Gregory. I would not have allowed your continued association with my brother had I been in any doubt of that. Over the years you have proved yourself trustworthy and ethical, refreshingly honest too. Truth to tell, were I to trust anyone with whatever I possess that passes for a heart, it would be you. While we are being truthful with one another, let me admit that I find you incredibly attractive, but that goes without saying…”

“Woah, no, it doesn’t.” Greg was smiling. “Honestly, I think I look old, and I feel old, and I’m going soft in the middle…” he patted his stomach ruefully, “and I’m also of the opinion nobody would look at me twice…”

“Let me stop you there, Gregory. It is obvious that you do not see what others see when you glance in a mirror.” Gregory grinned at him again, wider, if that was possible. 

“Kettle calling pan black, mate,” he said, fondly.

Mycroft suddenly seemed to come to a decision in a heartbeat, as if he waited longer he might decide against it. Mycroft met his eyes and nodded. “Very well. Friday. Although it will have to be 7.30 for 8. I am working late that evening. I have a conference call with my opposite number in Canada. Would that be acceptable?”

Mycroft watched Greg startle at the speed at which he made his decision. Dinner would be fine as an overture. If Gregory was as good as his word only time would tell if their relationship could blossom and grow into something more. It was true, they had known each other a long time; time enough for Mycroft to have observed Gregory in many situations and come to many conclusions regarding the man, and one thing Mycroft did know unequivocally was that Gregory Lestrade did not have a tendency to be creative with the truth. He believed what he said. In his turn, Mycroft was never one for procrastination. He agreed to the date before he could divert his mind onto a course that would potentially be simpler, but would also share the possibility of growing old in loneliness and isolation. He may still be puzzled as to Greg’s motivation for it, but Mycroft knew Gregory had the potential to prove himself in time. It was simply a first step, and someone had to make the first move or the **possibilities** would never be revealed. 


End file.
